


The One With The Panic Attacks

by elioolivercmbyntrash



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kind Strangers, M/M, Mental Illness, Might add more tags later, Modern AU, Panic Attack, Sickfic, Whump, anxiety attack, cw vomit, just once, mental health, poor elio, seriously panic attacks are hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elioolivercmbyntrash/pseuds/elioolivercmbyntrash
Summary: Elio has his first panic attack.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 11
Kudos: 74





	1. The First Panic Attack

**Author's Note:**

> This one's been sat on my laptop for a while now, because I wasn't sure whether it was going to be a one shot or not. Well, turns out there will be more chapters.
> 
> TW for panic attacks. I've had a lot of panic attacks on the tube (London underground) and I know how horrible it is. Sometimes though, there are lovely strangers who are there to give a helping hand.

The subway was packed, and like always, Elio was literally like a sardine in a tin. To one side of him, there was a businessman wearing what looked like a Gucci suit, but who had definitely not heard of a shower. To another side was a woman who Elio could hear sniffing over his headphones, even though he’d set the volume up to dangerous levels already to try and drown out the rush of the train. Her strong perfume was mixing with the stink of the businessman and Elio was trying hard to not gag. Someone else behind him had put their backpack at their feet on the floor, which was, like, the  _ ultimate _ sin when the train was packed. 

A few weeks ago, he’d been on the subway with Oliver when they got stuck underground for half an hour with no explanation. Elio’s brain had flicked some kind of switch and started telling him that he was going to die on the subway. If he didn’t get squashed in some kind of stampede, he was going to die when the train got stuck in this God-forsaken tunnel or something else. Of course, death by too much perfume and body odour was also likely. There had been times when he’d had to get off before his stop, just to catch his breath.

The train came to a stop. Elio looked up. They had stopped in a tunnel. Why had they stopped? God, this was it. He was going to get trapped underground. He’d never see Oliver again, never go back home to Italy, never get to experience turning 21. He paused his music. The driver was making an announcement. Something about a red light, moving shortly, not long. What if the red light stayed red? Elio opened his mouth wide. Big mistake, he thought to himself, as the stench of perfume and BO entered his lungs. The ends of his fingers, his face and lips started to tingle and vibrate. His heart was threatening to push itself out of his chest. 

Why weren’t they moving yet?

“Are you alright?” BO man asked. 

Elio touched his face. His cheeks were wet. The train still wasn’t moving. 

“I…” No good. He opened his mouth but he couldn’t get any air into his lungs. His stomach started gurgling.  _ Shit _ . He was going to throw up all over everyone. If he didn’t die or go mad from whatever this thing was, he’d definitely have to leave Julliard and New York, and probably America too if he threw up on a packed subway.

“I think he’s having a panic attack,” the perfume lady said. “We need to get him off the train at the next stop. He doesn’t look good.”

The train was moving. Thank God. Elio just needed to get his lungs to work properly again, and then he’d call Oliver and let him know he was running late. 

This was the last time he’d use a subway train, ever.

“It’ll be OK, honey,” said the perfume lady. “We’ll get you off the train and get you some help. My name’s Evelyn.”

Once the train had stopped, BO man told everyone in the vicinity to let them off the train ASAP, because this kid looked like he was about to blow cookies. They got Elio off the train and onto the platform, and started scanning around for a member of staff and a bench when Elio put his hands on his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

“Oh honey. Let’s find you somewhere to sit down. What’s your name?”

“Elio,” he gasped. “I need to get home.”

“Is there someone we can call?” asked BO man. 

Elio nodded, as he sat down on the bench and put his head in his hands, his tears becoming loud sobs.

“Is everything alright?” a concerned looking station worker approached them, looking at Elio and the pool of vomit and his two saviours. Christ. Elio’s cheeks were on fire. Thank God he’d already decided to never go on the subway again, because he certainly could never take this train again.

“He’s had a panic attack,” Evelyn said, sitting next to Elio and putting a hand on his back. “Honey, I’m happy to pay for you to get an Uber home. Will someone be at home now?”

Elio wiped his eyes on his hoodie sleeve. “Yes,” he said. He unlocked his phone and pulled up Oliver’s contact details. “Thank you so much, but you don’t have to.”

“I insist,” said Evelyn, with a smile.

“Elio?”

“Oliver I...I...I’ve had a panic attack. I..”

He handed the phone to Evelyn.

“Elio?”

“Oh, hi, my name’s Evelyn. Elio had a panic attack on the subway and he’s feeling quite shaken. Could you let me know your address so I can get him an Uber?”

*

Elio was relieved when the cab finally arrived outside their building. The driver had tried to make small talk with Elio, wanting to know where he was from and how he’d come to New York and what his weekend plans were, but Elio had told him he didn’t feel well and didn’t want to talk. He knew it sounded rude and  _ bratty  _ like Oliver would say, but Elio did not have any energy left to care.

“Thanks,” he said, as he got out of the cab. He made his way up to the apartment, unlocked the door, and collapsed into Oliver’s embrace.

“It’s OK,” said Oliver. “You’re OK.”

“I thought I was going to die, or worse, go mad,” Elio said, sobbing into Oliver’s sweater.

“You had a panic attack, honey,” Oliver said. “Go and sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Elio clutched the mug of peppermint tea and curled his legs up on the sofa, resting his head on Oliver’s shoulders. Oliver wrapped his arm around Elio and caressed his arm. When Elio’s eyes began to droop, Oliver rescued the cup of tea and placed on the coffee table. He smiled when he saw that Elio had fallen asleep, his face relaxed and his breathing easy. Oliver held him until he also fell asleep.


	2. "I need help"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio has more panic attacks. It takes time, but he finally decides to get help.
> 
> TW - panic attacks are described big time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm keeping this fic short and sweet. Mostly because a) I don't have the emotional energy to write anymore than this - I myself have panic attacks. And b) I don't really have time for full-blown fics. One-shots are easier for me. I also write stuff with my own characters, which I'm slightly more committed to. Plus I work full time. Also I realise I don't have to justify any of this.

Elio took a cab the next day to work. He knew Oliver would eventually find out, when he looked over their finances on a Saturday afternoon as he was in the habit of doing once a month, but Elio had promised himself that this would be a one off, would lie and say he’d been tired and hadn’t been feeling that great, he couldn’t face the subway. A one off wouldn’t matter. He’d rather take a cab and get to work in one piece. Oliver had tried to persuade Elio to take the night off; he’d been fussing over Elio all day.

“Honestly, I’m fine,” Elio had said, before he’d left for work. “I just had a moment, that’s all, because the train stopped.”

“Being so anxious that you puked isn’t normal.”

“No, that’s why I said it was just a moment. Oliver, I’m  _ fine _ .”

And he was fine - he got through his shift, played as well as ever, got a good reception, had a glass of wine with Mia, his agent. He had a concert coming up in a month - his first ever concert since graduating Julliard. “You’ll be going on tours before you know it, poppet,” Mia had said. She was British and had a habit of calling everyone poppet, which Elio had Googled and found out that it was a British term of endearment. It had nothing to do with the doll and with witchcraft.

A few days later, Elio got on the subway without thinking about it. 

As more people started to fill the car, Elio’s heart began to beat faster. What if he suddenly stopped being able to breathe properly? What if he almost passed out, had to be escorted off the train by a couple of strangers? What if he vomited on the platform? Or worse, what if he vomited  _ on  _ people? He always wore his motion sickness bands on the subway, and they always worked, but there was always a risk. What if he pissed himself? Or what if he just, well, went mad and died? 

He had to get off.

Elio got off at the nex station and found an empty bench at the end of the platform. His cheeks and his lips were tingling. He tried to open his mouth to breathe, because he couldn’t get enough air through his nose. But when he opened his mouth, the pins and needles became more extreme and the air kept getting stuck in the back of his throat. He needed fresh air.

“Sir? Are you OK?” 

Elio rushed past the station worker out onto the street. Someone walked into him, shouted something at him. Elio found a little alley between a couple of stores, and crouched down, trying to catch his breath. His tongue tasted salt; was he crying?

He rang Mia, told her he was sick, the meeting will have to be cancelled - sorry it’s such late notice.

“Oh poppet,” said Mia. “Are you OK? Don’t worry about it. These things happen. Get some rest.”

Once the waves of nausea calmed, Elio flagged a cab and went home.

*

“How was the meeting?” asked Oliver that evening.

“Oh, it didn’t happen,” said Elio, picking at his pasta.

“Oh?”

“I...I had another episode, or something,” said Elio. “On the subway.”

“A panic attack?” 

“I don’t know,” said Elio. He pushed his plate away and topped up his glass of wine. 

“Honey, I think you should see a therapist or -”

“No.”

*

Elio’s fingers started to tingle at the ends as they stood in the queue, waiting to enter an art exhibition he’d been waiting months for. He’d somehow managed to take the subway, for the first time in a few weeks. It helped that Oliver was on the train with him; Oliver was his anchor. He’d gripped Oliver’s hand, allowing himself to feel grounded, trying to ignore the thoughts spinning in his head; what if, what if, what if?

The tingling spread to his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead. His heart was pounding against his ribs. Maybe there was something wrong with his heart? Oliver was talking; Elio could see his mouth moving but his brain couldn’t work out what he was saying. Elio smiled, praying that was the right response. 

“El? You OK?” asked Oliver, taking Elio’s hand and squeezing it. “You’re shaking.”

“Me OK.”

“Really?”

Elio nodded.

Once they’d looked around the exhibition, they went to the museum cafe for some coffee. 

“Let’s find a seat first,” said Oliver. “Ah, there’s one table in the corner over there, see it? By that plant. I’ll get us some coffee.”

Elio watched Oliver as he ordered their coffees, praying that he’d get served quick. He didn’t dare remove his sweater, because his armpits and his back were wet. He took his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it and pretended to check his emails. Why was everyone looking at him? Well, he guessed, they could probably see how anxious and pathetic he was. Maybe he smelled, because he was sweaty. 

“Here you go,” said Oliver, placing a black coffee in front of Elio. 

“I’ll never get used to American coffee, I don’t think,” said Elio.

“It’s not  _ that  _ bad,” said Oliver. “So, how did you like the exhibition?”

“I loved it,” said Elio. He would’ve loved it, if the air conditioning had been working and if children hadn’t been allowed in the exhibition. Why would parents take kids to an art exhibition and then allow them to roam around, like the gallery was a playground? He’d been taken to many exhibitions as a child, and followed his parents around as Papa told him about the artists and the stories behind the painting, and Elio had believed that Papa had actually eaten an encyclopedia at one point because how else would he know  _ all _ of these things? 

Elio’s heart had been thumping against his chest the whole way around the exhibition, and he’d had pins and needles in his fingers, which now had spread to his lips. 

“Woah!” said Oliver, when Elio’s coffee spilled onto the table. “Honey, you’re shaking. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” said Elio. “But, like, sorry, I need to leave. Can we go home?”

“Sure. Elio, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I...I can’t breathe. My chest hurts so bad I...I...what if I’m having a heart attack? It’s too hot in here. There’s too many people. Oliver, I’m pathetic. I’m so pathetic. I need to go home and never leave the apartment again. I can’t breathe!”

“Is everything alright?” asked the woman sitting at the table next to them. 

“He just needs some air,” said Oliver.

“Everyone’s looking at me. I can’t breathe!”

“El, come on honey. Let’s get some fresh air, OK? I think you’re having a panic attack.”

“I’m not. I think I’m ...I’m having a heart attack!”

Oliver glared at those in the cafe who had turned their heads as he guided a hyperventilating, sobbing Elio out of the cafe and into the foyer. 

“Elio, I need you to breathe for me.”

“I...I can’t! I’m going to die!”

“You’re not. You need to breathe for me, honey. Slowly. Can we breathe together? In...1,2,3, and out 1,2,3.”

“I think I’m having a heart attack!”

Oliver took Elio’s hands in his. “Look at me, sweetie. Look at me. We’re going to breathe together, and then go home. OK? In...1,2,3,4 and out, 1,2,3,4. That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

Once Elio’s breathing had eased back into a normal pattern, his shoulders slumped. “I want to go home,” he said.

“Let’s get a cab,” said Oliver. 

*

When they got home, Elio kicked off his shoes and coat and lay on the sofa, folding his legs so that he was in a fetal position. 

“I’m going to make you a cup of sweet tea,” said Oliver. “And I think you need to see a doctor.”

“Why? I’m fine.”

“Sweetie, you keep having panic attacks. I just think you should see a doctor and get some help.”

“No.”

“OK,” said Oliver.

Elio had fallen asleep on the sofa when Oliver came back with a cup of sugary tea and a plate of cookies. Oliver smiled, and covered Elio with a blanket. At least now, his face was peaceful.

*

“What if I get on stage and forget how to play?” asked Elio. His concert was coming up in a few days.

“You could be in a coma and still be able to play,” said Oliver. 

Elio didn’t mention what it was he was really afraid of; sitting at the piano, thousands of eyes looking at him, and his body fucking things up. What if he stopped being able to breathe? What if he puked on stage? What if his fingers  _ stopped  _ working?

Oliver was right, of course. Elio would still be able to play, even if he was stuck in a coma. The concert was fine, despite Elio vomiting before and after he was on stage. 

  
  


*

“Elio, can I have a word?” 

It was a Saturday afternoon in September. The rain poured down, a torrent of biblical proportions, the drops slamming against the window. Elio was sitting at his keyboard, clutching a piece he’d been composing. He’d been sitting there for at least an hour, staring at the rain.

“Hm?”

“I was looking over at our bank statements and, well, um, someone has spent a lot of money on taxis this month.”

“Oh?”

“Taxis are a luxury…”

“It’s not like we can’t afford it,” said Elio. His tone was defensive, pathetic. 

“I’m not...do you think I’m cross with you? I’m not. I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. I know you’ve started having panic attacks.”

Elio’s lips began to tremble. Oliver tilted his head.

“I...I…I…” He tried to suppress the tears, biting his trembling lips. His chin began to tremble, then, and fuck, he couldn’t hold it back. He clenched his shaking hands into fists and stuck them against his eyes as if he was trying to shove the tears back inside. He tasted salt. He waited for the door to slam, for Oliver to leave his anxiety-riddled, pathetic boyfriend.

Oliver wrapped his arms around Elio, rubbed his back. Elio stuck his face into Oliver’s chest, streaking Oliver’s shirt with snot and tears and saliva as he sobbed. Oliver rubbed Elio’s back and rocked him back and forth, kissed him on the top of his head.

Elio blinked, his lashes stuck together with tears. He wiped his eyes and face on his sweater sleeves, ignoring the tissues Oliver offered him. 

“Your sweater,” said Elio, pointing to the wet patch on it. 

“Don’t worry about that,” said Oliver. “I’m worried about you, honey.”

“I think I need help,” said Elio. “I need help.”

“I’ll help you find some help,” said Oliver. “We’ll get you the best therapist, OK?”

Elio nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think ending it with Elio realising he needs help is a positive way to end it - that's always the first step to getting help.


End file.
